by David Poyer
Right then, almost from nowhere, Dan knew he could kill him.
They were alone on the trail. All he had to do was grab a fallen limb and brain the lying, adulterous son of a bitch. BS Bob, as the opposition called him, their commentators hammering it over and over into their programmable listeners. Or go for the pistol in the satchel. Getting even—wouldn’t that be worth dying for?
He stood rooted, sick and trembling.
De Bari turned his head, as if he could sense his thoughts. Their eyes met. Then the president looked away, and resumed the climb.
Dan hiked after him, feeling sweat break all over his body. Feeling as if he could not stand one more hour of breathing. Why didn’t anyone notice he was losing his grip, running off the rails, going just plain bughouse? He tried looking away. Lagging back. Thinking about how the shadowing sun embossed every bole and twig with cold pewter light.
Finally the shakes eased. He took a deep breath of cold air. Pulled it in slowly, so he could taste it around his tongue. Mint. Pine. Melting snow. Then let it out. Another. That was better.
He didn’t really want to kill the man climbing laboriously ahead of him, panting, his once-white Adidas coated and slipping in the mud.
But he couldn’t take much more of this either.
18
ASMARA, ERITREA
The familiar parching heat, glaring sun, pale dust of the Middle East. He stood watching the huge white-and-blue aircraft float down toward a runway he’d paced for hours that morning, inspecting for potholes, rocks, foreign objects, or anything suspicious.
The wheels touched, and kissed up smoke. And the chest-shaking roar of the immense engines reversing into braking thrust was met by an even greater thunder from hundreds of thousands of throats, a surging sea that broke and recoiled, walled from the heat-shimmering tarmac by lines of troops and armor, weapons pointed at the hungry and desperate.
As desperate, in a different way, as the De Bari administration, now trapped in a firestorm of criticism. The major indexes had hit new lows. A scandal was brewing in the Department of Education. Even the vice president was speaking out against Bob De Bari now, whose poll numbers had dropped into the thirties.
Dan had followed it on the BBC, and what little he’d heard through staff channels. But he couldn’t say he did so with any interest. It felt distant, or he felt distant. He really couldn’t say he cared.
* * *
Colonel Gunning had put him on the advance party for Adamant Black. “Adamant” was the code word for a presidential foreign visit. Since Air Force One would be taking off in less than a month, that meant he was playing catch-up from the start.
In his first meeting with the Air Mobility Command at Andrews, they’d told him a presidential visit was the equivalent of a medium-sized military intervention. The numbers were staggering: a thousand people, 180 airlift and aerial refueling missions, maintenance support teams, medical evacuation units. Actually it was a military operation, run by the Defense Department according to an order that included all the concepts of operations, logistics, command and signal sections, and minute-by-minute schedules he was familiar with from other operations. It would have struck someone who hadn’t operated in a joint planning environment as insanely complex, anally specific, and neurotically over detailed, down to the thickness of the railings on the reviewing stands, ground loading for the helicopter dome shelters, and specs for the plugs on the microphones. But he’d plunged in, sleeping on the cot in the PEOC, pulling work over him like a sheltering blanket.
Along with the two 747s, Air Force One and Two, Adamant Black included three C-5 Galaxy heavy lift air transports carrying two presidential limousines, the Roadrunners, the command vans, a specially equipped ambulance, and hordes of other vehicles for staff and support. One airlifter carried Marine One and its escort aircraft. There was medical staff. Press corps. Comm staff. Valets, negotiators, advisers, stewards, area specialists, hairdressers … nearly two hundred security people, both uniformed and plainclothes. “Blacktop” alone, the Secret Service foreign mission personnel, consisted of fifty agents and four vans of equipment.
The advance party left at D minus six. Dan kept in constant phone contact with Charlie Ringalls. The little westerner was the go-to guy on presidential travel, though Dan had to consult with Holt and the first lady’s people too, as she was coming along.
The chief of staff sounded peremptory and harried these days, no doubt because of the coverage a knot of demonstrators was getting. They’d camped out in front of the White House, demanding action on jobs. Their numbers were growing. So was concern about the president’s polls. Holt kept emphasizing that the press secretary would call the shots on this tour. He kept mentioning “the Moment,” which Dan had at first taken as shorthand for the now-familiar De Bari photo op. But when the press secretary’s people used the phrase, it sounded mystical, an iconic encapsulation in one unforgettable image of what the trip was about. When he asked them what the trip actually was about, one guy said that was it: the Moment.
At which point he gave up. This was just another bubble from Robert De Bari’s content-free shipwreck of a presidency. He took that futility or reassurance out with him onto the dusty roads of drought-ridden East Africa, riding in rented Land Rovers with the press and protective detail through village after village. These people had real problems. He only wished he had even a little power, a little money. Even the smallest bit of what was being wasted …
* * *
And here he was, “Mustang,” arms lifted triumphantly heavenward as he posed atop the exit stair. De Bari descended to embrace President Afwerki. Then, ushered ahead, he preceded his host between ranks of troops at present arms. (Dan had personally inspected each rifle to make sure none was loaded.) The crowd-roar grew as they ducked into a limo with the Stars and Stripes and the green, red, and blue Eritrean banner.
Pushing through local officials, spitting windblown grit, Dan finally got to the command van. The door cracked to his hammering. Someone groaned; it was already over seating capacity with perspiring, crumpled USIA and USAID people, Nosler, and the press secretary. He wedged himself in with a sense of rejoining civilization.
He caught up to Gunning, who was carrying the football, in front of the Governor’s Palace. The Raj-era building was surrounded by palms and gardens. The colonel nodded as if he’d seen him yesterday, and asked for the plans for the next stop. Dan looked around for shade, and punched the schedule up on his new personal digital assistant.
“Four countries in eight days, then Jerusalem,” the senior aide said in disgust. “And what countries. Who signed him up for these shitholes?”
“I get marching orders from Wrinkles, but I don’t know who gives them to him. The press secretary? Holt?”
“Yeah, sounds like a Tony Pony. It’s a good time to get Bob out of the country, though. People are talking impeachment, and not just Freck’s gang. Since Louisville—”
“What about Louisville? Nobody got hurt.”
“I figure it’s not for Louisville, it’s for what hasn’t happened since Louisville. And what’s not happening on the stock market. And what’s not happening, period.”
“What do they want him to do?”
“The fuck should I know? I’m not the president. He should do something. Fire some missiles. Invade somebody. Shit, like they’re saying on the radio, even Edwards would be better than this guy.”
Dan had thought the FBI was doing something; rooting out the organization in California that had planned the radioactive dispersal and sheltered the terrorists, trying to find out who’d financed and armed them. But he didn’t argue. The people he worked with at Mobility Command were still eager to do a good job. But even they were outspoken about their growing hatred for Robert De Bari and everything he represented.
* * *
From Asmara the tour headed up into the hinterlands. Ringalls had suggested they visit Kerkerbit, where the battle had taken place, but Holt vetoed that when Dan poi
nted out it was still in an unsecured area. The compromise was Camp Keaney, the base in the highlands Task Force Cougar operated from.
Dan had flown there to look things over, and have a talk with General Wood. He was relieved to find the man didn’t recognize his voice as the staffer he’d spoken to at the Sit Room. Wood wasn’t happy about playing host, but after some cutting remarks he’d nodded acknowledgment of Dan’s point that even a president who’d decided not to support his offensive was still his commander in chief.
150900: MARINE ONE LANDING CAMP KEANEY
150900–0915: BRIEFING BY COMMANDING GENERAL TASK FORCE COUGAR
Marine One landed two minutes ahead of schedule, escorted by three Army Black Hawks, for what Dan had scheduled as a two-hour visit. The weather was clear but cold, due to the altitude, and the wind boiled up the dust into a sandpaper fog. The landscape was sand and rock, with eroded mountains barring the western horizon.
Dan jumped off the chopper after De Bari, clutching the satchel and worrying about the distance to the UHF uplink. Since this was a combat zone, he’d borrowed a pistol belt from the marines at the embassy and clipped the Beretta to it.
He didn’t enjoy being back in battle dress. Just the smell of the cloth reminded him of Iraq. He jerked his mind out of that groove, which spiraled down first into fear, then panic so extreme he’d hyperventilate himself nearly into a blackout. The president was dressed as if he were at his ranch, in jeans and snakeskin boots and a camo flak jacket that looked out of place over a plaid shirt that probably came out of the L.L. Bean catalog. At least he wasn’t wearing his white Stetson.
Dan trailed him into a meet and greet in the command tent with Wood, his staff, and some locals. The general said little, just offered everybody bottled water and went into a map brief on the situation on the border and the composition of the Sudanese and militia forces opposite. The staff officers, though, were glowering and muttering in the back. Standing with them, Dan could hear everything they said.
150915–0930: MEETING WITH TRIBAL ELDERS AND LOCAL MILITARY REPRESENTATIVES
The tribal elders bowed repeatedly when they were introduced, holding cans of Coca-Cola. Their unwashed stench filled the tent. The smell didn’t seem to bother De Bari, though. He was sympathetic and amiable, asking what they needed, how they got their news, how the U.S. could help. Wood stood silently by at parade rest, participating only when De Bari asked him a direct question. A State guy Dan didn’t know translated, conspicuously taking notes every time one of the graybeards mentioned something his tribe wanted.
150930–1000: TOUR OF CAMP KEANEY, INTERACTION WITH ENLISTED
Wood handed De Bari goggles and led him out into the wind again. The rest of the party shuffled after, those who didn’t get protective eyewear shading their eyes against the blowing grit. The press secretary had announced that since the task force was conducting operations, the president would forgo the usual chat with the troops and just do an informal walkaround.
The clatter and whine of the gunships Dan had set up to orbit came—now loud, now distant—from the tan sky. The press staff worked the camera crews, pointing out shots of De Bari joking with the Eritrean liaison, lending a hand sandbagging a position, inspecting a Hummer’s transmission.
Head down, staying ten steps behind the gaggle, Dan meditated on the divergence of aim between the press staff and the media itself, noisy, fractious, and determined to get a story out of one of De Bari’s increasingly rare visits to a military post. When a cornered Ranger submitted to a handshake, the reps dragged the crews over to film it. When on the other hand a working party turned its collective back on the president, the reps waved the media off like cops waving traffic past an accident. POTUS moved on, and the crews fell in again behind him, the plastic wrappings on their videocams flapping in the cold wind.
A large tent, with a line of dusty, tired troops standing outside, took shape from the fog. M-4s were slung muzzle down over their shoulders. Their boots were caked with dirt. De Bari lifted the flap, grabbed a mess tray, and joined them.
Not a bad move from the PR point of view, Dan thought. Unfortunately, the president decided to join on not at the tail of the queue, but at the front. And since his protective detail went with him, the net effect was to push the hungry, tired troops in line back on their heels.
The beefing got loud fast. Dan looked for a noncom, but didn’t see one. He didn’t see Wood either. Finally he raised his voice. The objections dropped in volume, but didn’t stop.
One of Wood’s staff officers, with the railroad tracks of an army captain: “What’s the trouble, Colonel?”
“Commander. These troops are talking in ranks.”
“They aren’t in ranks. They’re in the mess line.” The captain told them, “Keep it down. I don’t like this prick any more than you do, but military courtesy, okay?”
Dan blinked. Validating the troops’ feelings wasn’t the way to handle this situation. But they weren’t his men. His responsibility was security-banded to his wrist. Moreover, they were now the focus of three camera teams.
But when he turned back, the flap was falling closed. The captain had left.
“Son of a bitch just pushes in front,” one trooper said tentatively, and the beefing caught fire again.
“Left us hangin’ in Ker-ker. Now the fucker wants his picture taken with us?”
“Conscientious objector, my ass.”
They kept getting louder. Worse, they began crowding into the tent.
Dan pushed in too, using the satchel to bulldoze soldiers out of the way, and saw as the flap lifted De Bari being backed against the serving line. The protective detail closed up. But within seconds, in the close, food-smelling, near-dark confines of the tent, the result was a struggling knot of muscular bodies behind which the president was just visible trying to say something amid rising shouts and the clatter of mess trays on rifles from outside. Gritty dust milled, beaten off uniforms, scuffed up from the dirt floor. A stack of cups collapsed with a deafening clatter.
Dan wedged into the scrum, yelling at the troops to back off. Elbowing men out of the way, he came face-to-face with McKoy. The head of the protective detail grabbed him by the shoulders and spun him around. Now, facing out, not in, he felt himself propelled from behind, the satchel gripped like a shield in front of his chest, like the front hoplite in a Spartan phalanx. The rest of the detail had their feet braced and were shoving, turtled around De Bari. When Dan glanced back, the president’s cheeks were flushed. He’d never seen the guy mad before. Or was it fear?
When he looked around again he was face-to-face with an angry-looking soldier with a dark complexion, black mustache, and stubble on his cheeks. He was shouting in Dan’s face, but with a foot or two still between them, when someone behind him shoved the trooper forward.
Dan grabbed with one arm, missed, but McKoy was ready. Big palms wide in front of him, when the soldier crashed into him the agent pushed back so hard the thump of his hands against the man’s chest echoed through the tent. Staggering back, the soldier made a sudden involuntary movement. One hand went, perhaps by chance, to his combat vest.
Dan saw his fingers close around a grenade.
Without even appearing to move McKoy had his pistol out and leveled at the trooper’s head. With a simultaneous dip and thrust all the Secret Service men—they were all men on this forward-base visit—had theirs out too. Everyone froze, staring at the weapons. Somebody muttered, “Oooh … shit.”
A light blazed on at the tent entrance. The glare of a videocam flood limned shocked eyes, gaping mouths, capturing them all in a suddenly frozen tableau.
“Clear the tent. Clear this fucking tent!”
General Wood, as pissed off as Dan had ever seen a human being. The troops recoiled. Cursing noncoms grabbed at uniforms, web gear, hauled them out bodily. Within seconds the tent was empty, except for the panting Secret Service men, Wood, Dan, and the president.
Dan lowered the satchel to the scuffed
dirt, breathing hard. He couldn’t believe what he’d just seen. He’d never seen American troops act like this.
He remembered the hate-filled eyes, the hard, tanned faces. The legionaries of the Border. Would the first emperor come from among them?
19
KHARTOUM, SUDAN; GOMA REFUGEE CAMP, EASTERN ZAIRE
He’d expected a feeding frenzy when the video hit, but to his surprise only a couple of outlets mentioned the incident. He watched it in Air Force One’s pressroom twenty thousand feet above the North African desert. It came across as a confused scuffle in a dark tent, not as the mass and open disrespect he’d experienced. Somehow Ringalls, Holt, and the rest of the president’s men had put the well-known De Bari spin on the story.
He didn’t believe the troops would actually have used their weapons. The one who’d grabbed the grenade had done so by reflex. But what they’d been saying was another matter. He couldn’t believe American troops would express open contempt of the commander in chief like that. He had to go back a lot of years for anything like it. To when officers were getting fragged in Vietnam.
* * *
Khartoum was a chaotic, run-down sprawl that smelled of paranoia where khawaja—foreigners—were concerned. Dan advanced the visit with a sinister-looking colonel who described himself as an “aide.” Lenson suspected he was more likely head of the secret police. The streets reeked of diesel exhaust, shit, and an ancient dry dung-stink that seemed to come from the very bricks.
He helped Gunning set up the comm relays, then carried the PES for De Bari’s first meeting with “President” Omar Hassan Ahmed el-Bashir. Dan, the Sudanese colonel, McKoy, and the rest of the protective detail drank cardamom tea in a corridor while the Sudanese bodyguards scowled at them. That afternoon he went along with the first lady and the president for a boat trip on the Nile—which was short, as the river was low and the black mud stank horribly. McKoy had vetoed the visit to the Souk Arabi, fearing anyone could run out of the market crowd, fire a shot at close range, and disappear back into the thousands of beggars, refugees, day laborers, tribesmen, and women in black chadors and leather masks who thronged the juice stalls and spice shops.
